


i'm a big girl, i can take it

by thefudge



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 3x11, Bacall and Bogart, Banter, F/M, Film Noir, Unresolved Sexual Tension, back at it again with my jeronica bullshit, you can cut it with a knife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: She pauses by the door, beret tipped low with an aura of mystery. “Say…you know how to whistle, don’t you?” (based on 3x11)





	i'm a big girl, i can take it

**Author's Note:**

> that episode deserved a little trashy oneshot, okay? it just did.

 

Veronica strolls into his makeshift office with expert, almost clinical grace. But he’s not fooled. The more poised her movements, the bigger the disarray underneath that snug black suit.  

She’s always embodied a kind of domesticated chaos.

“Working late, I see,” she drawls, stopping in front of his paper-strewn desk.

He turns sideways in his chair.

“I assume you’re here to find out whodunit.”

The beret casts a long shadow down her face. She lowers her head, immersing herself fully in the dark. “After my father woke up, it was the first thing he asked me.”

Jughead can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers slip against the clasp of her purse.

Too much shit has happened in the span of a week. She’s had to get her hands dirty, dirtier than before. She’s had to burn her parents’ rotten legacy twice over and somehow watch over them.  Because she still loves them, despite herself. She doesn’t yet know that her suspicions were confirmed – that Hiram and Hermione have tried to kill each other, multiple times. He hates that he has to tell her. He doesn’t want to add to her misery, even if she carries it so well.  

It rankles a bit, because the Serpents are supposed to protect her, but they - or rather he - can't protect her from everything. Can't protect her at all. 

“I told him it was Tall Boy who shot him,” she says with a wry smile.

Jughead blinks. “He believed you?”

“I think so. If it’s good enough for my father, it’s good enough for me.”

He frowns because she’s an inveterate performer and he doesn’t know if this is the truth or another defense mechanism. If he asks, she might lash out.

Veronica coughs, looks down abashedly and drags one heel against the unswept floor, leaving a mark in the dust.  

“I - I’m afraid I’m a tad short on cash at the moment, so I can’t really honor the second half of your payment. But rest assured, I will pay, with interest.”

Jughead rubs the back of his neck. “Isn’t _La Bonne Nuit_  turning in a nice profit? Especially now that you’re serving alcohol.”

Veronica arches her back, lifts her chin in a stately fashion. “Is that judgment I detect in your voice, Bogart?”

“Perish the thought, Bacall. I’m only stating facts.”

There’s a small smile playing on her lips. “Well…if you must know, I’ve had to deal with some of Daddy’s … _associates_ and that required a certain amount of resources.”

Jughead can’t help smiling back. She always teases the humor out of him. “Playing with fire, I see.”

“It’s the fire that won’t leave me alone.”

They stare at each other with something like playful ease. This back and forth, it comes so naturally sometimes. She almost forgets they’re not quite friends, not quite _there_ yet.

Jughead folds his arms and regards her carefully. Yeah, he knows she’s been through the ringer this week but he also knows she won’t accept any comfort. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know why her father was shot.

What Veronica really needs from him is some good old-fashioned banter. As if they were two characters in a movie, which is what they’re doing anyway.

“Careful you don’t step into your father’s shoes.”

Veronica perks up. “They’re a size too small, frankly.”

Jughead smirks. He feels invigorated. He wishes sometimes they didn’t live in vastly different worlds.

“Your mafiosa duties aside…” he trails off, leaning back in his chair, “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on _some_ form of payment. I can't be seen doing favors.”

_Oh._

_...shit_.

That’s – that’s not the kind of banter he’d planned on. Why – why did that come out of his mouth?

Veronica’s eyebrows rise dramatically. She leans a little against his desk, as if she’s missed a step and has to gather her bearings. Her expression is hard to read.

Jughead swallows, falters. “I – well, I accept food too.”

He hopes she interprets it as a joke, all of it.

But Veronica suddenly glides forward, as easy as skates on ice. She bends down, planting her elbows on his desk, right next to his typing machine.

Jughead has to make an effort not to flinch.

She stares him down as if she were about to arm-wrestle him, beret slanted puckishly in her hair.

And then she bites her lower lip. But not the way a schoolgirl would: half-nervous and unsure. No, she bites her lip like she expects the flesh to yield. She expects _all_ flesh to yield.

Jughead’s jaw clenches shut. Her suit lapels flare wider and he can see the delicate outline of her cleavage, a mere shadow, but savage in its allure.

 “All right, Bogart. I'll play. If I was not me and you were not you…” she drawls, eyes flicking over his features as if she were rewriting them, “if we were really in a film noir, this would be the part where I toy with your suspenders and you resist the impulse to throw me over your typewriter. It would be all…subdued innuendos and bottled up tension.”

Jughead breathes slowly through parted lips. He’s aware that he’s almost glaring at her. Like he resents her force of nature.

He’s aware this is all a farce, some make-believe they’ll forget about (just like they “forgot” about the Jacuzzi), but she’s too magnetic, or maybe the air between them has always been a little too charged for comfort.

She rests her chin in her palm, surveying him with deceptive, prehensile calm.

He only has to lean forward a little to –

“But you’re not wearing your suspenders today,” she remarks, eyeing his plain shirt. She sighs. “Qué lástima.”  

Jughead suppresses a shudder. It’s a good thing he’s still holding onto his chair. He should retreat, should try to put an end to this vaudeville before it goes too far, but she always brings out this unearned sense of pride in him and he _needs_ to have the last word. He’s a goddamn writer, after all.

So he forces himself to speak.

“You keep talking, but you’re still not offering me anything.”

Veronica's face lightens up like glow worms in the dark. There’s a genuine spark of joy there, as if she were relieved he’s playing along.

“What could you possibly want from me other than green dollar bills?”

Jughead can’t concede now, but he’s also completely and utterly paralyzed. Because pretend or not, this question has never been posed to him straight-forward. He’s never let himself contemplate what he might want from Veronica Lodge.

Because he should want nothing.  

He has a future ahead of him, a loving girlfriend, and a frankly more functional family than hers. If anything, it’s Veronica who is the bad influence, who might drag him into her seedy depths. Yes, she’s brilliant and fashionable and even noble in her own way, and she can just as easily frequent the Governor’s Ball as she does mobster joints.  But let’s face it, if you follow her, you might end up shot, in jail, or running for your life. Archie Andrews is living proof.

And yet.

“Whatever it is,” she says, as she drums her nails against the table. “I told you. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

A small muscle twitches under his eye. 

Those _words_ – they sounded so innocent when she said them before, they sounded like a young woman trying to comfort herself. But now, in this light, from this angle, they sound like an invitation and a threat.  She’s so good at switching registers. She lives between them.

His breath is a ghost, his pulse erratic. His body aches. He clenches the back of his chair for dear life. He has to keep his hands away. He can’t lunge for her. He can’t grip her like that. He can’t toss her beret and drag her body in his lap.  He’s not that person.

_I’m a big girl. I can take it._

What if he bent her over the desk until the ribbon of his typewriter bit into her cheek? What if he put his hands over her, over that impeccable dress, and squeezed her ass until she demanded he slip his hands underneath? What if he were a madman?

This must be a freak impulse, the aftermath of visiting that brothel with Betty. He felt no twinge in that menagerie of fetishes. He feels no twinge thinking about it now.

But he can’t stop thinking about Veronica’s cheek and the typewriter and his hands and her spine.

She suddenly slides her elbows back. Her smirk is fading. She looks at him a little askew. She must’ve been spooked by what she saw in his eyes – the feral fantasy, the part of him that isn’t really a part of him.

“I guess you don’t want anything...Bogart,” she says, more relieved than disappointed.

They both stare for a moment at the typewriter.

Jughead coughs, bends down to pick up a piece of paper.

Veronica stands up straight, smooths down her suit. 

She slings her purse over her shoulder.

“This was moderately amusing, wasn’t it?”

 _Amusing is one word for it_ , he muses darkly.

“Nice doing business with you,” he replies, throat dry.

“I will forward you the rest of the payment as soon as possible,” she adds, a little breathless, tossing her hair over her shoulder. 

She pauses by the door, beret tipped low with an aura of mystery. “Say…you know how to whistle, don’t you?”

It takes him half a moment to figure out what she’s quoting.

And it’s like she's twisting the knife in the wound. 

“You just put your lips together and…”

“… _blow_ ,” he finishes for her, feeling as if he’s run a marathon.

Veronica nods in satisfaction and winks like it’s their little secret.

And then she’s gone.

Just like that. In and out.

The game is over.

Jughead leans back in his hair, runs his hand over his face. He stares at the blank piece of paper in front of him.

He’s all out of words.

He puts his lips together and blows. 

**Author's Note:**

> the whistle scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30DSfAA0brs


End file.
